He sits not a dozen yards away. If I glance over my shoulder Ican see him. And if I catch his eye-and usually I catch his eye--it meets me with an expression. It is mainly an imploring look--and yet with suspicion init. Confound his suspicion! If I wanted to tell on him I should havetold long ago. I don't tell and I don't tell, and he ought to feelat his ease. As if anything so gross and fat as he could feel atease! Who would believe me if I did tell? Poor old Pyecraft! Great, uneasy jelly of substance! The fattestclubman in London. He sits at one of the little club tables in the huge bay by thefire, stuffing. What is he stuffing? I glance judiciously and catchhim biting at a round of hot buttered tea-cake, with his eyes onme. Confound him!--with his eyes on me! That settles it, Pyecraft! Since you will be abject,since you will behave as though I was not a man of honour,here, right under your embedded eyes, I write the thing down--theplain truth about Pyecraft. The man I helped, the man I shielded,and who has requited me by making my club unendurable, absolutelyunendurable, with his liquid appeal, with the perpetual "don'ttell" of his looks. And, besides, why does he keep on eternally eating? Well, here goes for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing butthe truth! Pyecraft--. I made the acquaintance of Pyecraft in this verysmoking- room. I was a young, nervous new member, and he saw it. Iwas sitting all alone, wishing I knew more of the members, andsuddenly he came, a great rolling front of chins and abdomina,towards me, and grunted and sat down in a chair close by me andwheezed for a space, and scraped for a space with a match and lit acigar, and then addressed me. I forget what he said--somethingabout the matches not lighting properly, and afterwards as hetalked he kept stopping the waiters one by one as they went by, andtelling them about the matches in that thin, fluty voice he has.But, anyhow, it was in some such way we began our talking. He talked about various things and came round to games. Andthence to my figure and complexion. "You ought to be a goodcricketer," he said. I suppose I am slender, slender to what somepeople would call lean, and I suppose I am rather dark, still--I amnot ashamed of having a Hindu great-grandmother, but, for all that,I don't want casual strangers to see through me at a glance toher. So that I was set against Pyecraft from thebeginning. But he only talked about me in order to get to himself. "I expect," he said, "you take no more exercise than I do, andprobably you eat no less." (Like all excessively obese people hefancied he ate nothing.) "Yet,"--and he smiled an oblique smile--"we differ."
And then he began to talk about his fatness and his fatness; allhe did for his fatness and all he was going to do for his fatness;what people had advised him to do for his fatness and what he hadheard of people doing for fatness similar to his. "A priori," hesaid, "one would think a question of nutrition could be answered bydietary and a question of assimilation by drugs." It was stifling.It was dumpling talk. It made me feel swelled to hear him. One stands that sort of thing once in a way at a club, but atime came when I fancied I was standing too much. He took to mealtogether too conspicuously. I could never go into thesmoking-room but he would come wallowing towards me, and sometimeshe came and gormandised round and about me while I had my lunch. Heseemed at times almost to be clinging to me. He was a bore, but notso fearful a bore as to be limited to me; and from the first therewas something in his manner--almost as though he knew, almost asthough he penetrated to the fact that I might--that therewas a remote, exceptional chance in me that no one elsepresented. "I'd give anything to get it down," he would say--"anything,"and peer at me over his vast cheeks and pant. Poor old Pyecraft! He has just gonged, no doubt to order anotherbuttered tea-cake! He came to the actual thing one day. "Our Pharmacopoeia," hesaid, "our Western Pharmacopoeia, is anything but the last word ofmedical science. In the East, I've been told--" He stopped and stared at me. It was like being at anaquarium. I was quite suddenly angry with him. "Look here," I said, "whotold you about my greatgrandmother's recipes?" "Well," he fenced. "Every time we've met for a week," I said, "and we've met prettyoften--you've given me a broad hint or so about that little secretof mine." "Well," he said, "now the cat's out of the bag, I'll admit, yes,it is so. I had it--" "From Pattison?" "Indirectly," he said, which I believe was lying, "yes." "Pattison," I said, "took that stuff at his own risk." He pursed his mouth and bowed. "My great-grandmother's recipes," I said, "are queer things tohandle. My father was near making me promise--" "He didn't?"
"No. But he warned me. He himself used one--once." "Ah! . . . But do you think--? Suppose--suppose there did happento be one--" "The things are curious documents," I said. "Even the smell of 'em. . . . No!" But after going so far Pyecraft was resolved I should gofarther. I was always a little afraid if I tried his patience toomuch he would fall on me suddenly and smother me. I own I was weak.But I was also annoyed with Pyecraft. I had got to that state offeeling for him that disposed me to say, "Well, take therisk!" The little affair of Pattison to which I have alluded was adifferent matter altogether. What it was doesn't concern us now,but I knew, anyhow, that the particular recipe I used then wassafe. The rest I didn't know so much about, and, on the whole, Iwas inclined to doubt their safety pretty completely. Yet even if Pyecraft got poisoned-I must confess the poisoning of Pyecraft struck me as an immenseundertaking. That evening I took that queer, odd-scented sandalwood box outof my safe and turned the rustling skins over. The gentleman whowrote the recipes for my great-grandmother evidently had a weaknessfor skins of a miscellaneous origin, and his handwriting wascramped to the last degree. Some of the things are quite unreadableto me--though my family, with its Indian Civil Serviceassociations, has kept up a knowledge of Hindustani from generationto generation--and none are absolutely plain sailing. But I foundthe one that I knew was there soon enough, and sat on the floor bymy safe for some time looking at it. "Look here," said I to Pyecraft next day, and snatched the slipaway from his eager grasp. "So far as I--can make it out, this is a recipe for Loss ofWeight. ("Ah!" said Pyecraft.) I'm not absolutely sure, but I thinkit's that. And if you take my advice you'll leave it alone.Because, you know-- I blacken my blood in your interest,Pyecraft--my ancestors on that side were, so far as I can gather, ajolly queer lot. See?" "Let me try it," said Pyecraft. I leant back in my chair. My imagination made one mighty effortand fell flat within me. "What in Heaven's name, Pyecraft," Iasked, "do you think you'll look like when you get thin?" He was impervious to reason. I made him promise never to say aword to me about his disgusting fatness again whateverhappened--never, and then I handed him that little piece ofskin. "It's nasty stuff," I said. "No matter," he said, and took it.
He goggled at it. "But--but--" he said. He had just discovered that it wasn't English. "To the best of my ability," I said, "I will do you atranslation." I did my best. After that we didn't speak for a fortnight.Whenever he approached me I frowned and motioned him away, and herespected our compact, but at the end of a fortnight he was as fatas ever. And then he got a word in. "I must speak," he said. "It isn't fair. There's somethingwrong. It's done me no good. You're not doing yourgreat-grandmother justice." "Where's the recipe?" He produced it gingerly from his pocket-book. I ran my eye over the items. "Was the egg addled?" I asked. "No. Ought it to have been?" "That," I said, "goes without saying in all my poor deargreat-grandmother's recipes. When condition or quality is notspecified you must get the worst. She was drastic or nothing. . . .And there's one or two possible alternatives to some of these otherthings. You got fresh rattlesnake venom." "I got a rattlesnake from Jamrach's. It cost--it cost--" "That's your affair, anyhow. This last item--" "I know a man who--" "Yes. H'm. Well, I'll write the alternatives down. So far as Iknow the language, the spelling of this recipe is particularlyatrocious. By-the-bye, dog here probably means pariah dog." For a month after that I saw Pyecraft constantly at the club andas fat and anxious as ever. He kept our treaty, but at times hebroke the spirit of it by shaking his head despondently. Then oneday in the cloakroom he said, "Your great-grandmother--" "Not a word against her," I said; and he held his peace. I could have fancied he had desisted, and I saw him one daytalking to three new members about his fatness as though he was insearch of other recipes. And then, quite unexpectedly, his telegramcame.
"Mr. Formalyn!" bawled a page-boy under my nose, and I took thetelegram and opened it at once. "For Heaven's sake come.--Pyecraft." "H'm," said I, and to tell the truth I was so pleased at therehabilitation of my great grandmother's reputation this evidentlypromised that I made a most excellent lunch. I got Pyecraft's address from the hall porter. Pyecraftinhabited the upper half of a house in Bloomsbury, and I went thereso soon as I had done my coffee and Trappistine. I did not wait tofinish my cigar. "Mr. Pyecraft?" said I, at the front door. They believed he was ill; he hadn't been out for two days. "He expects me," said I, and they sent me up. I rang the bell at the lattice-door upon the landing. "He shouldn't have tried it, anyhow," I said to myself. "A manwho eats like a pig ought to look like a pig." An obviously worthy woman, with an anxious face and a carelesslyplaced cap, came and surveyed me through the lattice. I gave my name and she let me in in a dubious fashion. "Well?" said I, as we stood together inside Pyecraft's piece ofthe landing. "'E said you was to come in if you came," she said, and regardedme, making no motion to show me anywhere. And then, confidentially,"'E's locked in, sir." "Locked in?" "Locked himself in yesterday morning and 'asn't let any one insince, sir. And ever and again swearing. Oh, my!" I stared at the door she indicated by her glances. "In there?" I said. "Yes, sir." "What's up?"
She shook her head sadly, "'E keeps on calling for vittles, sir.'eavy vittles 'e wants. I get 'im what I can. Pork 'e's 'ad,sooit puddin', sossiges, noo bread. Everythink like that. Leftoutside, if you please, and me go away. 'E's eatin', sir, somethinkawful." There came a piping bawl from inside the door: "ThatFormalyn?" "That you, Pyecraft?" I shouted, and went and banged thedoor. "Tell her to go away." I did. Then I could hear a curious pattering upon the door, almost likesome one feeling for the handle in the dark, and Pyecraft'sfamiliar grunts. "It's all right," I said, "she's gone." But for a long time the door didn't open. I heard the key turn. Then Pyecraft's voice said, "Come in." I turned the handle and opened the door. Naturally I expected tosee Pyecraft. Well, you know, he wasn't there! I never had such a shock in my life. There was his sitting-roomin a state of untidy disorder, plates and dishes among the booksand writing things, and several chairs overturned, butPyecraft"It's all right, o' man; shut the door," he said, and then Idiscovered him. There he was right up close to the cornice in the corner by thedoor, as though some one had glued him to the ceiling. His face wasanxious and angry. He panted and gesticulated. "Shut the door," hesaid. "If that woman gets hold of it--" I shut the door, and went and stood away from him andstared. "If anything gives way and you tumble down," I said, "you'llbreak your neck, Pyecraft." "I wish I could," he wheezed. "A man of your age and weight getting up to kiddishgymnastics--" "Don't," he said, and looked agonised. "I'll tell you," he said, and gesticulated.
"How the deuce," said I, "are you holding on up there?" And then abruptly I realised that he was not holding on at all,that he was floating up there--just as a gas-filled bladder mighthave floated in the same position. He began a struggle to thrusthimself away from the ceiling and to clamber down the wall to me."It's that prescription," he panted, as he did so. "Yourgreat-gran--" He took hold of a framed engraving rather carelessly as he spokeand it gave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while thepicture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling,and I knew then why he was all over white on the more salientcurves and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully,coming down by way of the mantel. It was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat,apoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from theceiling to the floor. "That prescription," he said. "Toosuccessful." "How?" "Loss of weight--almost complete." And then, of course, I understood. "By Jove, Pyecraft," said I, "what you wanted was a cure forfatness! But you always called it weight. You would call itweight." Somehow I was extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft forthe time. "Let me help you!" I said, and took his hand and pulledhim down. He kicked about, trying to get a foothold somewhere. Itwas very like holding a flag on a windy day. "That table," he said, pointing, "is solid mahogany and veryheavy. If you can put me under that--" I did, and there he wallowed about like a captive balloon, whileI stood on his hearthrug and talked to him. I lit a cigar. "Tell me," I said, "what happened?" "I took it," he said. "How did it taste?" "Oh, beastly!" I should fancy they all did. Whether one regards the ingredientsor the probable compound or the possible results, almost all of mygreat-grandmother's remedies appear to me at least to beextraordinarily uninviting. For my own part--
"I took a little sip first." "Yes?" "And as I felt lighter and better after an hour, I decided totake the draught." "My dear Pyecraft!" "I held my nose," he explained. "And then I kept on gettinglighter and lighter--and helpless, you know." He gave way to a sudden burst of passion. "What the goodness amI to do?" he said. "There's one thing pretty evident," I said, "that you mustn'tdo. If you go out of doors, you'll go up and up." I waved an armupward. "They'd have to send Santos-Dumont after you to bring youdown again." "I suppose it will wear off?" I shook my head. "I don't think you can count on that," Isaid. And then there was another burst of passion, and he kicked outat adjacent chairs and banged the floor. He behaved just as Ishould have expected a great, fat, self-indulgent man to behaveunder trying circumstances--that is to say, very badly. He spoke ofme and my great-grandmother with an utter want of discretion. "I never asked you to take the stuff," I said. And generously disregarding the insults he was putting upon me,I sat down in his armchair and began to talk to him in a sober,friendly fashion. I pointed out to him that this was a trouble he had brought uponhimself, and that it had almost an air of poetical justice. He hadeaten too much. This he disputed, and for a time we argued thepoint. He became noisy and violent, so I desisted from this aspect ofhis lesson. "And then," said I, "you committed the sin of euphuism.You called it not Fat, which is just and inglorious, but Weight.You--" He interrupted to say he recognised all that. What was he todo? I suggested he should adapt himself to his new conditions. So wecame to the really sensible part of the business. I suggested thatit would not be difficult for him to learn to walk about on theceiling with his hands-"I can't sleep," he said.
But that was no great difficulty. It was quite possible, Ipointed out, to make a shake-up under a wire mattress, fasten theunder things on with tapes, and have a blanket, sheet, and coverletto button at the side. He would have to confide in his housekeeper,I said; and after some squabbling he agreed to that. (Afterwards itwas quite delightful to see the beautifully matter-of-fact way withwhich the good lady took all these amazing inversions.) He couldhave a library ladder in his room, and all his meals could be laidon the top of his bookcase. We also hit on an ingenious device bywhich he could get to the floor whenever he wanted, which wassimply to put the British Encyclopaedia (tenth edition) on the topof his open shelves. He just pulled out a couple of volumes andheld on, and down he came. And we agreed there must be iron staplesalong the skirting, so that he could cling to those whenever hewanted to get about the room on the lower level. As we got on with the thing I found myself almost keenlyinterested. It was I who called in the housekeeper and brokematters to her, and it was I chiefly who fixed up the inverted bed.In fact, I spent two whole days at his flat. I am a handy,interfering sort of man with a screw-driver, and I made all sortsof ingenious adaptations for him--ran a wire to bring his bellswithin reach, turned all his electric lights up instead of down,and so on. The whole affair was extremely curious and interestingto me, and it was delightful to think of Pyecraft like some great,fat blow-fly, crawling about on his ceiling and clambering roundthe lintels of his doors from one room to another, and never,never, never coming to the club any more. . . . Then, you know, my fatal ingenuity got the better of me. I wassitting by his fire drinking his whisky, and he was up in hisfavourite corner by the cornice, tacking a Turkey carpet to theceiling, when the idea struck me. "By Jove, Pyecraft!" I said, "allthis is totally unnecessary." And before I could calculate the complete consequences of mynotion I blurted it out. "Lead underclothing," said I, and themischief was done. Pyecraft received the thing almost in tears. "To be right waysup again--" he said. I gave him the whole secret before I saw whereit would take me. "Buy sheet lead," I said, "stamp it into discs.Sew 'em all over your underclothes until you have enough. Havelead-soled boots, carry a bag of solid lead, and the thing is done!Instead of being a prisoner here you may go abroad again, Pyecraft;you may travel--" A still happier idea came to me. "You need never fear ashipwreck. All you need do is just slip off some or all of yourclothes, take the necessary amount of luggage in your hand, andfloat up in the air--" In his emotion he dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of myhead. "By Jove!" he said, "I shall be able to come back to the clubagain." The thing pulled me up short. "By Jove!" I said faintly. "Yes.Of course--you will." He did. He does. There he sits behind me now, stuffing--as Ilive!-- a third go of buttered teacake. And no one in the wholeworld knows-- except his housekeeper and me--that he weighspractically nothing; that he is a mere boring mass of assimilatorymatter, mere clouds in
clothing, niente, nefas, the mostinconsiderable of men. There he sits watching until I have donethis writing. Then, if he can, he will waylay me. He will comebillowing up to me. . . . He will tell me over again all about it, how it feels, how itdoesn't feel, how he sometimes hopes it is passing off a little.And always somewhere in that fat, abundant discourse he will say,"The secret's keeping, eh? If any one knew of it--I should be soashamed. . . . Makes a fellow look such a fool, you know. Crawlingabout on a ceiling and all that. . . ." And now to elude Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirablestrategic position between me and the door.